Bittersweet
We have a condo in Murrieta, about 90 miles south of our place here in LA. We bought it when Robyn got a job in that area and rather than drive back and forth and stay in a motel, we had a place where she could hang out and we could visit periodically. It is nice, two bedrooms, two baths, with a courtyard and a patio where one can sit out, have and adult beverage, and watch golfers on the nearby course chip and put on the fourth green.
Time has passed. We no longer visit the spot and it was appropriate that we either sell or rent it out. Rent was the decision and we hired a management company to take over the place and maintain as an income rental. I wanted to rent it furnished but they said no. “If a renter provides their own furniture, then they are more committed. We rent it unfurnished.”
The question is what to do with basically a complete household of furniture. The management company said they were happy to call a junk dealer have have it all trashed. I decided to seen an alternative. I found a nearby charity, like goodwill, that would come and pick up all the clothes and furniture. This weekend was set for the move out.
A friend and I went down and boxed up books and clothes. The movers arrived and in less than two hours had everything except the beds (they don’t take beds) loaded.
I know its just ‘stuff,’ but I was saddened to see so much of what we had accumulated over the past 30 years just given away. We had spent many happy hours there just to ‘get away’ for a day or so. We had made friends with some of the permanent residents, but they, too, had either moved or passed on. We were all that was left. Both Robyn and I had served on the condo board, which was an adventure to be told at another time. Briefly I can tell you, “Don’t do it.”
One of our critters, Heidi, got out and we found her the next day three miles away sitting under a tree along side the freeway. She gave me a “what took you so long” look. Had we not found her, my guess is that we would have sold the place. Cat, Brackets, got out and we never saw him again. Robyn spend a number of weekends sitting with the doors open, hoping, but to no avail. Tuxedo, Gigi, and Shiloh enjoyed traveling the hour and a half and then exploring the place.
Our friends from Ottawa stayed in our place for a few days one winter and liked it so much they bought a unit nearby. They come down after Christmas and stay until the weather turns. Denise’s brother, Dennis, bought the unit next door to ours.
But enough. Yes its sad, but it is time to move along. Fair well, 29340 Calle Gaviota. You had a good run. But its time for a change.
JVH
Paul Manning always wanted to be a cop. During the Korean War he was an MP. When he returned to Los Angeles he joined the LAPD. That’s when it began to spiral in. He and hispartner came upon a woman being raped. Paul tolerated a lot, but not violence aga inst women. Before his partner could stop him, he beat the perp within an inch of his life.
Unfortunately the rapist was the son of a LA city councilman and politics being what they are, Paul was fired. He went to work for the Bel Air Patrol, a private police force protecting the rich and famous. The experience gave him what he needed to become a private investigator.
He opened his office in Hollywood.
One of his first cases began with an early morning phone call from the night manager of an underground garage just up the street at Hollywood and Vine.
A ringing in the distance stirred me from a deep sleep. It took a moment before I could
determine whether it was the phone or the door. It was the phone. It was still ringing after I checked the time, 7AM, and I padded to the kitchen to silence it.
“Manning,” I muttered. I don’t do very well before my second cup of coffee.
“Paul Manning, the detective?” replied a silky soft voice. I was just too nice a voice for 7 AM. But then, who am I to artuce with a voice like that, at any time?
“Yeah,” I answered. It wasn’t difficult affecting my surly “who the hell are you “ attitude after the amount of alcohol I had consumed the night before.
“This is Betty Beeson. I work for AB Parking in Hollywood. I’m in a lot of trouble and need your help.” Her voice began to quaver, and I knew at any moment she would start to sob. I can’t stand a dame that cries, particularly one I haven’t met. I decided to be a bit nicer. That usually isn’t difficult with me with beautiful women, but who knew.?
It spilled out of her like champagne from a tipped crystal flute. “I’m the night manager at our garage on Hollywood and Vine. My shift ends at eight. I counted the money and it was short. I didn’t steal it, Mr. Manning, really I didn’t. But when my boss finds out, he’ll fire me. I need this job. I called my friend Shirley and she said to call you….
…It was 9:20 so I walked the two blocks from my office to the Argyle. The day was hot and the brim of my hat was getting damp. The parking entrance was on Vine. I walked down the ramp and asked the kid in the booth to point out the parking office. The garage was cool and it felt good to take off the hat. As I neared the office, I heard a scream…
Read three ‘Death by Parking’ stories, The Laundry, The Phantom, and The Rendezvous in Book One. Book 2, The Lieutenant will be available soon.
Death by Parking
Paul Manning always wanted to be a cop. During the Korean War he was an MP. When he returned to Los Angeles he joined the LAPD. That’s when it began to spiral in. He and hispartner came upon a woman being raped. Paul tolerated a lot, but not violence aga inst women. Before his partner could stop him, he beat the perp within an inch of his life.
Unfortunately the rapist was the son of a LA city councilman and politics being what they are, Paul was fired. He went to work for the Bel Air Patrol, a private police force protecting the rich and famous. The experience gave him what he needed to become a private investigator.
He opened his office in Hollywood.
One of his first cases began with an early morning phone call from the night manager of an underground garage just up the street at Hollywood and Vine.
A ringing in the distance stirred me from a deep sleep. It took a moment before I could
determine whether it was the phone or the door. It was the phone. It was still ringing after I checked the time, 7AM, and I padded to the kitchen to silence it.
“Manning,” I muttered. I don’t do very well before my second cup of coffee.
“Paul Manning, the detective?” replied a silky soft voice. I was just too nice a voice for 7 AM. But then, who am I to artuce with a voice like that, at any time?
“Yeah,” I answered. It wasn’t difficult affecting my surly “who the hell are you “ attitude after the amount of alcohol I had consumed the night before.
“This is Betty Beeson. I work for AB Parking in Hollywood. I’m in a lot of trouble and need your help.” Her voice began to quaver, and I knew at any moment she would start to sob. I can’t stand a dame that cries, particularly one I haven’t met. I decided to be a bit nicer. That usually isn’t difficult with me with beautiful women, but who knew.?
It spilled out of her like champagne from a tipped crystal flute. “I’m the night manager at our garage on Hollywood and Vine. My shift ends at eight. I counted the money and it was short. I didn’t steal it, Mr. Manning, really I didn’t. But when my boss finds out, he’ll fire me. I need this job. I called my friend Shirley and she said to call you….
…It was 9:20 so I walked the two blocks from my office to the Argyle. The day was hot and the brim of my hat was getting damp. The parking entrance was on Vine. I walked down the ramp and asked the kid in the booth to point out the parking office. The garage was cool and it felt good to take off the hat. As I neared the office, I heard a scream…
Read three ‘Death by Parking’ stories, The Laundry, The Phantom, and The Rendezvous in Book One. Book 2, The Lieutenant will be available soon.